


you came along (and you cut me loose)

by ghostlands



Category: Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 03:24:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7960552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostlands/pseuds/ghostlands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His chair is next to his bed, not where it should be, and there’s someone sitting in it, when there shouldn’t be. He should care more, but his head still hurts, he can’t see clearly, and he feels nauseous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you came along (and you cut me loose)

**Author's Note:**

> Read the 1.1 blog post, saw Shane passed out drunk, got sad, and then wrote this.

He’s about to crash when Jas shows up, out of the blue, just before midnight. She’s in her pajamas, out of breath, saying something about Marnie needing him, and Shane being sick, before Flip’s already throwing on a sweatshirt and following Jas down to the ranch.

“You gotta go to your room or Marnie’s,” he tells her when they’re in front of Shane’s room, because a glance into the bedroom tells him that Marnie called him out here for backup—and Jas doesn’t need to see this. “Marnie will come tell you goodnight in a second, okay?”

Jas doesn’t put up a fight. She nods, and pads away into her room.

“I’m so _sick_ of this,” Marnie tells him when he shuts the door behind him, wary of the possibility of Jas peeking around the corner. His gut takes a hit when he sees her holding Shane, keeping him on his side, with several empty bottles scattered around him.

He hates the way it feels, seeing him like this. He hates that it’s not surprising.

Flip kneels down and presses a hand against Shane’s forehead—it’s cool to the touch, but still a little warm. And he’s breathing, even if it’s faint.

“It’s fine,” he tells her. “You should go be with Jas. I can watch him.”

When they switch spaces, Shane stirs, and then tries to string a nonsensical sentence together before falling silent again. Flip keeps him steady, keeps him on his side, kicks a few of the bottles away into the corner of Shane’s room and reassures a lingering Marnie that _he’s fine, he’ll be fine, tell Jas he’s fine._

—

Shane wakes up at one point, when it’s still dark out, hissing out a _fuck_. He kicks off the covers on his bed and then curls into himself, clutching his stomach. He can’t stop swearing, can’t stop sweating, can’t stop the piercing pain in his intestines, the confusion, the splitting headache—

He feels a hand on his head, carding through his hair, and vaguely registers someone asking him too many questions, staying too many things. He wants to spit out _get the fuck off_ , but he can only jerk his head away. When that doesn’t work, he shoves and shoves and _shoves_ , even when he’s not touching anything at all.

—

It’s dawn when Shane wakes once more, dizzy and confused. There’s light shining through his curtains. His chair is next to his bed, not where it should be, and there’s someone sitting in it, when there shouldn’t be. He should care more, but his head still hurts, he can’t see clearly, and he feels nauseous.

He’s going to be sick.

Shane shoots out of bed and into his bathroom, and pukes the rest of his stomach out into the bowl of his toilet. He can feel tears pricking his eyes, but he shuts them tight, focusing on his breathing. However much he doesn’t want to puke, it happens again anyway, and he hates it, he hates himself so _fucking much_.

He automatically jerks his shoulder away when he feels a hand on it, and then when he turns to finally register who it is, he hates himself even more.

“Sorry,” Flip says to him. “Sorry.”

Shane doesn’t look at him, doesn’t say anything. He focuses on his breathing again, in and out, trying to will himself to breath slower. _Fuck_ this, fuck it to hell.

After a while, he doesn’t notice Flip ever leaving the bathroom until he comes back with a glass of water, placed gently on the floor. He tries touching him again, placing his hand on Shane’s shoulder, and Shane is too tired to resist—he leans back against the wall, with Flip sitting right beside him.

There’s still tears pricking his eyes, and it burns, but he keeps them tightly closed and his head tilted up so they won’t fall.

“I can’t,” Shane breaks the silence, his voice hoarse. He wants it to sound steady, so badly. He can't sound weak, he can't sound like a fucking wreck. He clears his throat. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“I know,” Flip says.

He can’t take this. Flip can’t be here. He’s ruining everything, all of it, and he can’t control it, he can’t, he _can’t_.

Shane brings his knees up to his chest and digs the heels of his palms into his eyes, teeth clenching against a sob.

—

At some point, Shane passes out again, and wakes up in the same position against the wall, only now he’s tucked against Flip’s side.

He feels too hot. When he sits up, away from Flip, Flip stirs. Shane keeps still and stays silent, staring at the toilet in front of him. He doesn't feel anything.

In the corner of his vision, Flip moves, and then all the sudden, a glass of water is in front of Shane’s face.

“You need it,” Flip says.

Shane doesn’t resist, and finishes the glass in one sip. He catches his breath afterwards, and then feels heat building in his eyes, his nose, his face.

“I can’t stop,” he chokes out, his shitty emotions bubbling up again. “I can’t—“

“You can,” Flip tells him, unwavering. “I promise you.”

“You don’t know that,” Shane says.

“Yes, I do,” Flip doesn’t let him continue. “You can do this, I _promise_ you.”

Shane doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t need to. Flip urges him to shower, and he nods. Flip says he’ll make him breakfast, and he nods.

When Flip leaves the bathroom, Shane covers his eyes, and tastes salt from the tears he's been holding in.

—

It takes time, but Shane sobers up. It’s fucking _hard_ , it’s easily the worst thing he’s ever done, but he does it.

Routine helps. New job prospects help. Distractions help. The numb ache in his chest fades, slowly, until it’s easier to ignore, easier to will away not with alcohol, but care.

And Flip doesn’t go away.

They’re standing in front of the ruins of JojaMart. Funny thing is that when no one’s working there, providing basic maintenance, it falls apart easily within a few days.

“No word on what we’ll do with it now,” Flip says, crossing his arms. “It’s up to the Mayor and his higher-ups, whoever they are.”

Shane shrugs. “I wouldn’t mind it rotting to the ground.”

“I’m sure some people _would_ mind that,” Flip laughs, soft and easy.

Flip is there when he needs him, anywhere, any time. Shane cannot thank him enough, is not grateful enough—but every time he tries, Flip says it was all Shane, not him. He chose by himself. He healed himself.

Shane isn’t so sure.

Flip throws him a side-glance. “You look good. You feel good?”

“I’m fine.” Shane runs a hand through his recently trimmed hair. “You good?”

“I could use a vacation,” Flip admits. “You could stand to work on shaving more often, too.”

Shane scoffs. “Thanks.”

“Anything for you,” Flip uncrosses his arms with a wry grin and reaches out to pat Shane’s cheek, and then—for some reason—he leaves his hand there, feeling Shane’s stubble, expression going soft again.

And then, for some reason, Shane’s hand comes up to cup Flip’s.

The sound of his pulse reverberates loudly in his ears. He turns his head and leans into Flip’s touch enough that his mouth brushes the heel of Flip’s hand. He closes his eyes, breathes in, and then steps closer.

“Or,” Flip says, his voice wavering in confidence. “You could let it grow out. Beards are trendy as fuck.”

It’s a stupid idea, him with a beard. He's never liked beards. He's pretty sure Flip doesn't like beards, either. Shane responds by snaking a hand around the back of Flip’s neck, pulling him into a firm kiss.

Flip doesn’t move. Neither does Shane. Shane pulls back, fearing whatever Flip’s reaction is.

“Sorry,” Shane says automatically, dropping his hands. “Fuck that, I’m sorry.”

“I—fuck the beard idea? Or—” Flip asks, reaching for Shane’s hands again. Shane doesn’t let him have them. “Are you serious?”

Shane rubs at his face, feeling regret and shame almost as big as when Flip found him shitfaced on his bedroom floor. “Just don't.”

“Because yeah, fuck the beard idea,” Flip resolutely reaches for Shane’s sweater, a little panicky, a little hyper. “Can’t imagine kissing anyone with a full-on beard.”

When Shane’s pained expression doesn’t quite leave his face, Flip gently tugs him into a kiss that misses half of his mouth. Shane huffs, takes Flip's face into his hands, pressing his thumb against Flip's cheek, and doesn't miss when he kisses him back.

—

Shane’s polishing off some glasses with a clean rag when Flip comes in, looking ragged and tired. He knows that look—a deep set frown accompanied by tired eyes from a ridiculously long day of work.

Flip takes a seat at the bar, waving half-heartedly at Gus. Shane fills up a glass of water and sets it down in front of him.

“Been napping all day?”

“Ha ha, so funny,” Flip says, downing his glass of water in two gulps. “Think I saw my grandpa’s ghost earlier.”

Shane snorts. “Want me to grab something from the back?”

“Please,” Flip groans, reaching over the bar to help himself to more water.

—

Shane clocks out of work, fills up a takeout container of tomato basil soup and grabs a loaf of bread, bags it up, and meets Flip outside.

When he sees him, Flip’s got his hands in his pockets. He’s lazily shuffling his feet, staring at the ground in a tired daze, but when he looks back up, Shane catches a glimpse of one of Flip’s softest smiles. His favorite smile; the one that hits him deep in the gut every time he sees it.

He loves him, so much.

He doesn’t even hesitate when he hooks a finger around one of the shoulder straps of Flip’s dirty overalls and presses his lips against his cheek. “Dunno what to do with you,” Shane says.

Flip sniffs. “Do I smell?”

“Nah,” Shane says. “I’ve smelled worse.”

“You have,” Flip quips, his eyes heavy. He leans in close, pressing a cheek against Shane’s shoulder.

"Thanks for that," Shane snorts, slipping an arm around Flip to pat his back. “We gotta get you home. And in bed."

At that, Flip looks up at him and wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. Shane rolls his eyes.

“Later,” he says, when Flip doesn’t let up. He pulls away, sliding his hand slowly across Flip’s shoulder blades. “Dinner and sleep first.”

He only manages to take a few steps ahead when he feels fingers ghost along palm of his hand. Shane looks back, and Flip's looking at him, brows raised, unsure but hopeful. Shane reaches out and extends his hand, and then Flip’s fingers easily slide through his own.

“With you,” Flip states, an addendum.

Shane holds Flip’s hand tight. Their palms are going to end up sweaty and gross in no time, because summer’s hell in the valley, even at night, but Shane can’t bring himself to care.

“Deal.”

**Author's Note:**

> Wait patiently (or not so patiently) for the 1.1 update with me at [my tumblr!](http://www.teldrassil.tumblr.com)


End file.
